


Rinse and Repeat

by FrogFacey



Category: Sally Face (Video Games)
Genre: Gen, I'm just getting all my headcanons down, Slice of Life, the gang is mentioned but like not enough for them all to be tagged, the magic of 90s prosthetics, too long to be a drabble but too short to be anything else
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-06
Updated: 2019-06-06
Packaged: 2020-04-11 19:39:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19116373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FrogFacey/pseuds/FrogFacey
Summary: The mornings of Sal Fisher are humdrum and mundane.





	Rinse and Repeat

There was no alarm. Sal turned it off at what he guessed was nearly three am.

It wasn’t quite a nightmare, not really. He woke up feeling sad and sort of angry but other than that he couldn’t remember anything. Probably for the best.

He stayed awake until nearly eight, inspecting the popcorned ceiling and seeing if he could make any constellations. He got up two at least three (a bear, half a face and a worm respectively) before he heard footsteps in the house downstairs.

The walls weren’t _thin_ per se, they just weren’t enough to block out everything. Sal had gotten used to people walking around below his head by the first few weeks. It was its own alarm now.

He sat up and winced. There was a dull ache in his right cheek, as per usual. It seemed fine for now, but he wasn’t going to quote himself on that.

He peered over his dresser. With his current lack of sleep (i.e fuck you, internal clock) today didn’t seem like an eye day. With any luck, no one would say anything about it.

All righty, up we go.

He unhooked his prosthetic from his bedpost and let his wrist hang from the weight of it. 

Back to his bedside table. Somewhere near the back of his mind chimed that he was running out of baby wipes. He’d write that down _somewhere_ and probably forget until he had none left.

Ignoring the smell of hair dye, antiseptic was probably his least favourite smell. Too much like hospital birthdays and race car balloons tied to the railing of clunky beds. Still, getting an infection would probably be worse than whatever memory he was now consciously trying to bring up for the hell of it. 

The versatility of hand sanitiser never ceased to amaze him.

He picked at a bit of crud near the eye hole absently, pondering something about what his doctor would say if he saw him using a handbag sized bottle of knock-off convenience store hand sanitiser to disinfect his prosthetic.

Damn, if he left his hair unbrushed his fringe would sit in the way he liked. His dad would probably say something about it though. Or Ashley. She could always tell when he hadn’t brushed his hair. She never said anything but she always gave him that look. It said something like “You know that’s going to be a bitch to brush out tomorrow right?” except probably a lot more eloquently.

He shuffled around in his drawers for hair ties and wrangled his hair into place.

When that was all said and done he put his prosthetic to his face and used practised movements to completely fuck up clipping it on. He had to try two other times to get the thing to sit right and had to undo the bottom strap to get a few stray hairs free.

That dulled the aching a bit. His eye socket was sitting correctly and his cheek was doing it’s best.

It was starting to get cold out. Not quite coat weather but he could wear long sleeves without overheating, which he was not about to complain about.

Old, fading yellowish flannel he pinched from Larry, cool shirt, slowly disintegrating jeans, the kind of ugly floral skirt he found the other day.

Piercings in.

Sweet. 

Done.

He jammed his hands under his arms and nudged his door open. He wasn’t hungry but it was at least nine now and his Dad was probably going to start stirring soon and their one form of morning communication was making sure they both ate breakfast before his Dad fell asleep again on the couch next to the cat.

Orange juice counted.

Orange juice was fine.

He passed his gear boy on the way back to his room.

The one downside was that Sal had no way of talking to Larry now, so he couldn’t walkie talkie him to see if he was up yet. If he was he’d probably know.

If the gang had any plans one of them would probably swing past and fill him in.

Strange. Nothing from his dream had come back to him yet. He had a good track record for remembering dreams.

He shoved that to the back of his mind along with his shopping list.

Sal watched the little screen of his old alarm clock flicker back on. He’d have to fix the time at some point but not right now.

He’d finished his orange juice and was now trying to think of plans for the day.

One:  
Discuss dream shenanigans with Ashley? Maybe Todd? Todd would probably try and find some logical reasons about it, Sal was more in the mood for just talking.

Wait. Scratch that.

One:  
Grab his gear boy.

Two:  
Dreams.

Three:  
Hijack someone’s pockets. He wasn’t in the mood for shifting around his skirt if he wanted to shove something in his jeans pocket. One of them had a hole in them anyway.

 

“Hey, have you eaten?” His dad mumbled, running a tired hand over his face and scratching his beard almost thoughtfully.

“Yeah,” Sal answered, getting his shit together and heading towards the door.

They exchanged farewell pleasantries and Sal huddled himself into the rickety elevator.

God, mornings were boring.

**Author's Note:**

> based very heavily off of this tumblr post -> (https://doctorcanon.tumblr.com/post/184626377929/headcanon-sals-face) because yo. it's sick
> 
>  
> 
> I've had like, a two second clip of the oldest brother from round the twist saying "Let me just pop in the old tooth" from that fuckin skeleton in the dunny episode playing the whole time writing this


End file.
